Southern Oregon - tourist territory - Rogue River

First a disclaimer. I am an unapologetic southern Oregon booster.
How'd I get so lucky to accidentally land here? Staying put, however,  has been one conscious choice after another since 1971.

Rogue River High School kids painted this mural, which greets anybody who swings into Rogue River  off the freeway.
(Click on the pic for full view.)

My Minnesota sister and niece visited for a week in May. Niece Lisa, age 48, hadn't been here since puberty, and she arrived loaded with a pent-up desire for Oregon-scapes. I was on. We started in my backyard - Rogue River, then moved on to the Applegate Valley, Grants Pass, It's a Burl, the Redwoods and the Oregon coast. I'll get to those later. It was a great week of being a tourist and seeing this part of the world with fresh eyes.
PK and I have lived a mile outside this small town for 35 years. It has its charms. One of them is this mural, and also the local non profit formed to finance additional murals. Supporting public art is a good sign in any area, and particularly in a small rural town.

Sara at Rogue River's Soup Station

Jalapeno burger with cilantro mayo. Wow.

The Soup Station is another local gem. Honestly, its culinary offerings rival the best in the Rogue Valley. Maybe anywhere. Surely, it is a regional highlight. Chief (only?) waiter, Sara, announced during our dinner visit a few days ago that "she was having a heart attack." That was, of course, an exaggeration, but she was flying around there like crazy. Word is getting out about this small family operation that makes almost everything in-house from quality ingredients, and somebody in the kitchen has "the knack" resulting in  entrees that are cooking-show quality. I had a cream cheese-stuffed chicken breast topped with chipotle raspberry sauce. My sister had a jalapeno burger on a pepper cheese bun. Yummm. The place doesn't have a website. You'll just have to go there.

A Rogue River view from the Greenway.

Another local plus is the Rogue River Greenway, a trail that starts under the bridge a mile from our house and will eventually connect Grants Pass to Ashland, with numerous communities in between, a motorized-vehicle-free distance of about 50 miles.  PK is on the Greenway Foundation board, as is good friend, Gail Frank, and like many others, they're working their backsides off to create this huge benefit for locals and visitors alike. In the meantime, the Greenway provides a six-mile round trip from Rogue River to Valley of the Rogue State Park and back. Walk, run, or bike. Don't forget the camera. And if you're a road biker, consider Ride the Rogue on September 18, 2010. This is a quality event (with an unbelievable spread at the finish) attracting over 1,000 riders and many locals who choose the family walks and rides. Me? I'm going for 65 miles.
Other great stuff about Rogue River:
Main Building Supply . Yes, it's a hardware store. No, it isn't a tourist attraction per se. But if you ever want to meet retail staffers who apparently have Ph.Ds in customer service, go there. People travel from other area towns to shop for feed and seed, nails and paint etc. just because of these people. And it's just one block from the Soup Station.

Yoga teacher Denise Elzea doing one of her famous poses.

Yoga at the Community Center Annex, Mondays and Fridays @ 8 a.m.
$7 drop-in and $6 if you buy a punch card for 10 classes. The class is about 75 to 80 minutes long. Because I've done yoga for about 10 years, and the last six with Denise in Rogue River, I too can do the splits! And many other poses that strengthen and flex. Having this class a mile from home is a definite quality-of-life bonus.
The Rogue River Library is also a bonus, along with the hand-carved totem pole out front done by local carver Larry Johnson.
Next: Mother's Day at Rogue Valley Retirement, and a wine tour in the Applegate Valley.

Noah's coming. Is everybody ready?

This is wonderful daughter-in-law, Heather, soon to deliver our first grandchild. Noah. She doesn't look so happy here, but I know that she is. And son Quinn, too. I love the fruition about to occur, and also the great sense of humor demonstrated with the watermelon comparison. I wanted to post here a column I wrote nearly 24 years ago when I was bursting at the seams with son number two, Chris Korbulic. But I can't find it.
Here's what I remember. I was 40 years old. I was barrel-sized. Our little Grants Pass Museum of Art had scored an exhibit by Judy Chicago, The Birth Project. I was just days from giving birth. I was alone. I went into this exhibit, which was in peaceful Riverside Park with the Rogue River flowing past, and felt like all hell had broken loose.
I was surrounded by powerful birth images, women split by lightening bolts, women with life surging, bursting, exuding from them. Women experiencing life recreating itself. Women at one with the universe. Women caught in life's current whether or not they accepted the flow.
That's one of the biggest lessons of giving birth. It is about life going forward. It is not at all about the mother. And certainly not about the father. It is about the baby wanting out, and the moment he or she emerges, that is another person completely separate from the mother and father who created, without any instruction or impulse other than desire, a new life. Love and nurture all you want. That baby will be who he is from day one. And who he wants to be.
Back to Judy Chicago. As a voluminously pregnant woman, I was part of the exhibit. Others in the museum averted their eyes. From me. Did they really want to look at the real thing? Apparently not.

A few days later, we had a new baby. In those days, ultrasound fetal-sex discovery wasn't the norm. I thought we'd have a girl, whose name would have been Amber. Given my age, there was a reasonable chance that our child would have Down's syndrome or some other impairment. But this big baby squirted out, perfect. A nine-pound marvel swimming his way into the universe. Which he is still doing.
Natural childbirth, that is unmedicated childbirth, was all the rage during the 1970s and 80's. I didn't miss a thing either time. I don't recall that it was all that bad. Intense, but in a way to savor, if you can manage it. I was fully alert and aware during the birth of both of our sons. Those moments are peak experiences, the most compelling and pivotal experiences of my life.
All I can say is that having children has been joyful, illuminating, stimulating, revelatory, fun, frightening, and full of lessons.
PK and I hover on the perimeter of this coming event. Welcoming a grandchild adds a whole new dimension to having given birth to Quinn so many years ago, and to dancing at his wedding, and rejoicing in the news that the family will grow. Hello, Noah. I love you already. Whoever you are.

In with the new, out with the old

We think of spring as being all new life, pop-out-of-the soil vegetative wonders. But spring is also the end for some dear friends. Kale, for example. The kale we planted in the fall served us well, and in March and early April it got all pumped up out there in the raised rows despite the dastardly cold and rain and wind and hail. God, I love kale. Not just for how it tastes in stews and stir fries, but for who it is: incredibly tough, sweet, beautiful to look at, and a nutritional powerhouse.
About a month ago, in preparation for spring crops, and in response to the kale plants going into reproductive mode, I advanced upon the kale plot with a sharp knife and a tall kitchen garbage bag and laid waste. The harvest filled the bag.
The kale patch was maybe five feet by two or three feet. A tiny piece of earth, really. But still, after a long winter, we are kale-infused and green-tinged from this small plot, and we also have freezer bags of kale for ..... when? December, January, and into mid-February, the garden dormancy times in Southern Oregon.

Also rousted from the soon-to-be-spring garden was the volunteer red lettuce, which entwined in its bountiful exuberance with weeds to make a colorful patch. A healthy garden is loaded with volunteers, and it's kinda sad to cut em down to make way for the next generation. We always have volunteer lettuce, flowers, dill, and lots more, but end up either routing or relocating them to make way for the new delicacies.  Such as onions. Onions are usually cheap at the grocery store, so why grow them? Too many reasons to list, but just let me say "caramelized." We planted four or five varieties, some sweet with short-storage expectations and others meant for long life in our cool back-porch cupboards.

Onions ready to start the garden game. They always win.

And here are potatoes properly treated and dried for planting. Unfortunately, the day after the onions and potatoes initiated the spring garden, the sky cut loose with more rain, wind, hail and on and on. It pelted the garden for several days with sufficient force to loosen onions and many had to be replanted. As for the potatoes, the potato gods say not to water them until they push through with shoots. They could be rotting out there. We'll see.

Tomato plants surrounded by geraniums, which have been blooming for months. Waiting in the wings. Everybody's itching to go outside.

In the meantime, unseasonably cool and wet weather continues, and in the solarium, tomatoes, peppers, eggplants and flowers are getting leggy and impatient and aphid-threatened waiting for their moment in the sun. Spring. It's coming. I know it.

Stand and deliver!

It's a miserable rainy day. PK is at a conference. Except for an hour or so of paid work, I have nothing pressing. In short, I'm blessed with a perfect day at home alone with a big block of uninterrupted time to write. Except for one thing. Sitting at the computer for hours on end makes me so cranky. And creaky. And fat. I can feel my butt revolt as its capillaries close off, then spread out in defiance to fill my cushy office chair. I'm afraid to look, but I think it drapes over the sides.
 I'm compelled to get up and walk around, climb the stairs, stretch. On a nice day, I find it particularly difficult to stay seated. I have fantasized often, but obviously without imagination, about a work station that requires me to stand. As I became one with my chair this morning, I had an AHA!! moment induced by this New York Times Magazine article. It's all about the effects of exercise on weight. It concludes:

In a completed but unpublished study conducted in his energy-metabolism lab, Braun and his colleagues had a group of volunteers spend an entire day sitting. If they needed to visit the bathroom or any other location, they spun over in a wheelchair. Meanwhile, in a second session, the same volunteers stood all day, “not doing anything in particular,” Braun says, “just standing.” The difference in energy expenditure was remarkable, representing “hundreds of calories,” Braun says, but with no increase among the upright in their blood levels of ghrelin or other appetite hormones. Standing, for both men and women, burned multiple calories but did not ignite hunger. One thing is going to become clear in the coming years, Braun says: if you want to lose weight, you don’t necessarily have to go for a long run. “Just get rid of your chair.”

YES! I shoved my chair aside and bolted for a bookcase full of little-used tomes. My keyboard now sits atop three generations of the Atlas of Oregon, a picture book entitled Tibet, and my son Quinn's master's thesis. My mouse roams over History of Art,  Macmillan's Illustrated Animal Encyclopedia, and Bill Moyers' World of Ideas. How to Write a Nonfiction Book Proposal and Ghostwriting for Fun & Profit prop my computer screen at the appropriate angle. I have been standing for nearly five hours. I am so happy! Perhaps the ever-resourceful PK will look upon my improvised "stand and deliver" space and rush out to his workshop to whip up something more aesthetically pleasing. Til then, it's me and the books.

A spectacular late-bloomer

This cactus hangs all year in the solarium, and for the past few springs, it has come to life with amazing three-inch long luscious-looking stunners.

Right now, this baby has about 30 bedazzling blooms in various states of emergence, which are driving the hummingbirds outside insane.  At least 25 years ago when I was working for a newspaper, a woman I interviewed—she called herself the Plant Doctor—gave me this cactus in a much smaller state of being. She was moving and needed to off-load.
I stuck it in a six-inch raku hanging pot and paid scant attention as we raised two boys and some tomatoes and made a living and the years flew by. I don't even know why I kept it. It's was a spindly sad-looking specimen for most of its life. It never produced a flower.
Despite its homeliness, I brought it along the four years we moved to Grants Pass for our son, Chris, to go to a better high school, and then hauled it back when we returned in 2004 to our country home. It's still in the same pot, the same soil as the mid-1980s. The cactus first exploded with color and drama in 2006 or 2007 and is now kicken out the jams more spectacularly than ever before.
I've never really understood "late bloomer" but now I do. Twenty-five years? Come on!  And in my irresistible impulse to apply metaphor, I think of the human late bloomers I have known, and I think they are even more richly colored and interesting than the cactus. The cactus, after all, will soon revert to dormancy. Those human late bloomers? They just get more colorful.

Ultimate low-carb burger for spring

As I think I've mentioned, I got religion again for the low-carb regime, and a cold frame bursting with greens is an indispensable dietary aid. This sandwich is a bit of a challenge to pick up and eat, but here's what's in this "hamburger."

• One slice of Alvardo St. Bakery sprouted whole grain sourdough bread,  toasted: 15 carbs and 2 grams of fiber for a net carb count of 13.
• A small grilled burger made with McKibben Family Ranch ground beef, which is raised in Oregon's Willamette Valley, grass and clover fed, and free of hormones or antibiotics. I buy this at Gooseberries in Grants Pass, our only convenient source for natural foods except for the GP Growers' Market on Saturdays. I break up the grilled meat to make it easier to eat, and also to cut down on the portion size.
• A generous smear of homemade chipotle sauce
• Commercial ketchup
• Sliced cherry tomatoes - the best tomatoes available this time of year
• Sliced dill pickles
• Sliced red onions
• About six large whole fresh lettuce, spinach, or chard leaves

This is super easy and so good! Why eat those fluffy and tasteless carb-inflated burger buns?

Southern Oregon Soul Food

What is Southern Oregon Soul Food?
It's an earthy mix of vegetative extravagance—if there is such a thing—and carnivore indulgence.  It's a super savory blend of summer's preserved harvest mixed with especially dear winter and spring garden gifts.
In summer, it's a shopping trip to the garden with a will to work with whatever is ripe and ready.  It's a flair to dispense with recipes and rely on your culinary instincts to throw together whatever you have on hand to create something fabulous.
Here in Southern Oregon we're blessed with mild weather that encourages gardening nine months of the year. Our landscape is hill and vale, and those of us in the valleys are entrusted with rich bottom land begging to be cultivated. Not that the land gives itself up to easy harvests; a lot of work goes into every tomato and pepper. But for half a year's effort, there's a full year's eating pleasure. Want more?

Spring, for sure

 The weather has been generally rotten for the past couple weeks.
The only way I know for sure it's spring is that summer crops are bursting forth in the solarium.

I cheated and bought one cherry tomato plant at the Grants Pass Growers' Market.
It already has blossoms!

Tomatoes, peppers, eggplants soon to be potted.

Outside, overwintered lettuce, spinach and chard are pumping out the vites in the cold frame.
We take for granted that we'll have fresh greens from the garden or cold frame  nine months of the year.
I'm not sure how ordinary that is.

Creamed kale with dried tomatoes. Two, maybe three cheers!

It's April. That must mean it's time for kale! Oops. Looking back on my recipe posts, it looks like just about any time is kale time in Southern Oregon. And aren't we lucky?! I just happen to love kale, especially over-wintered kale that is crispy, crunchy, sweet in salads and delicious in soups etc. Then, of course, there's creamed kale with dried tomatoes. (I would say "sun dried" tomatoes, as just about any dried tomato is named thus. However, these tomatoes were sun-ripened, then slapped into the food dehydrator. So their summer-sun induced sweetness is preserved, but technically, they are air and heat dried.) Whatever. If you got em, use em in just about any way—and with kale, garlic, and heavy cream they're especially divine. Here's a guide.....not exactly a recipe, to creamed kale with dried tomatoes. If you cook at all like I do, guides work better than half a cup of this, a quarter cup of that, and two teaspoons of butter. (You always need more butter!)

Three different kinds of kale, left to right: red ursa, winter red, improved dwarf Siberian.

So here's how, loosely:
Ingredients:
1 big bunch of fresh kale ( I used all that was in the basket above.)
2-3 handfuls of dried tomatoes, chopped or broken
2-4 cloves chopped garlic
Veggie or chicken broth as needed to steam
Olive oil and/or butter as needed (or desired)
Whipping cream, about a quarter cup (Or half and half mixed with sour cream. Why skimp?)
Salt and pepper to taste
Directions:  The pictured kale is fresh from the garden, but kale is readily available in large bunches at most markets. Strip the leaves from the center stem and chop coarsely. Some people save the stems and use them in soup stock etc; I feed them to the compost worms.
Put a little olive oil and/or butter in a fry pan (I have recently been converted to the Cuisinart Green Gourmet pan, which my Aunt Ellen ensures me does not exude toxins into the food or air.)
Put the tomatoes into the pan along with a couple of sloshes of broth. Cover and cook on medium heat til the tomatoes are reconstituted, 5 to 10 minutes. Most commercially prepared so-called sun dried tomatoes are already pliable and won't need as much time. Add the kale and chopped garlic and stir together, then cover again until wilted, five to seven minutes or so. Add cream carefully—a little goes a long way. Season. Heat through and serve.

A GREEN dinner. In addition to the kale, we had green chili/turkey enchiladas suiza and cabbage and cilantro slaw with chipotle dressing. 

In the garden numerous bunches of kale are ready to be picked and processed. By that I mean blanched and frozen for next winter's soups and casseroles. In the meantime, there will be lots more creamed kale and super green salads.

Goo-goo, ga-ga: Advice for baby & parents

PK and I had a baby shower yesterday for son Quinn & his wife, Heather, who expect their first child, Noah,  in early June. Parents no longer guess about their baby's gender, making it easier on shower guests, who still purchase the color-appropriate baby garments and accessories. Shower attendees were mostly good friends from forever, it seems, and one new young woman. Before gifts were opened, advice for the new parents and the person-to-be were solicited. Here, for your reading pleasure, are their words of wisdom followed by an invitation to chime in.

Advice for the parents-to-be
Michael: Don't shake the baby. No diaper pins. God, they cry when you pin 'em.
When the baby cries and works into a fit, lay him on his tummy and press down gently and bounce him. This pushes the air out. When his face gets red, he can't cry.
Paul: Be ready for anything. You don't know what's going to hit you, but something will.
Gail: Be consistent. They'll work you against each other. This is a huge issue. And don't argue in front of the kids.
Mark: You only have one chance. Do the right thing for your kids, same as love. Do what you need to do to do right by them.
Dave: Children are such a positive and special part of a marriage. But you have to work to keep your relationship together and not let it get hijacked by the kids.
Susan: If you are the stay-at-home person, keep your creative energy alive.
Ferron: Anyone who has raised animals knows that you make a prompt response to behavior. Bad! Good! Do this before they learn to speak.
Elke: You'll make mistakes. Don't sweat the small stuff.
Catherine: Don't coddle. Children are resilient.
Jeanne: You think when they're little that childhood will last forever and you'll never have time for yourself. It doesn't last forever. Enjoy your children. They're gone too soon.
Gary: Your children are always with you. It just changes.
Mary: Children are born with a temperament. You can't do anything about it except to observe and learn what the child's nature is, then accept this little person for who he is.

Advice for Baby Noah

Paul: Be patient. Your parents have no idea who you are. Believe that they'll learn.
Gail: Laugh a lot. Life is good.
Sueji: I love your name, Noah. It has to do with boats. I want to take you on the river! It is important to know that your parents are human. Cut them some slack. Good parenting is the hardest job in the world.
Ferron: Get together with other newborns, and seriously consider a class-action lawsuit against circumcision.

Elke: Be patient with your parents. And be happy.
Catherine: Your parents are smarter than you are. Listen to them.
Mary: If your parents are mean and unreasonable, call Grandma!
Katarina: You're the firstborn. You're the experiment. Your parents will try everything on their first kid. Be patient.

Heather and Katarina cavort in the kitchen with baby Noah present in some way.

Got any words of wisdom for Noah or his parents? Ears, eyes, and minds are open wide. And hearts, too. And maybe even fetal comprehension.

Where the hell is Roatan?

Cruise passengers (the white people) are greeted by Roatan dancers who aren't all that amused.

The cruise ship docks just a short pier off the tiny island of Roatan, much to the delight of locals who view the cruise  ship industry as an economic opportunity where economic opportunities are rare.

I've been back from two weeks in the Caribbean for one week and it seems like I never went anywhere! Before "be here now" takes over entirely, I have a few words and images.

Roatan. Ever heard of it?  Neither had I until the cruise ship stopped there disgorging about 2,000 passengers onto this small—37 miles long, five miles wide—and hilly Honduran island. 
PK and I opted for a day at the beach. At $35 each, it was the least expensive of about a dozen excursions offered that day. (We were still clueless about independent excursions. More on that later, if I ever get to "what I learned about cruising.")
Here's what we got: a van ride over hill and vale thru tropical jungle to the beach: a huge buffet cruise-style barbecue lunch (all cruise food comes in huge); a park-like entrance to the beach; lounge chairs lined up like this with cruisers in various states of, uhhhh, ecstacy? Are we having fun yet?

A line is drawn in the sand and inches outside are locals, toes on the boundary,  trying to make a buck off us cruisers. PK and I strolled outside of the sanitized area and were immediately accosted by the woman in the green and black striped blouse. She was selling massages performed by her daughter, Larissa, that younger woman on the left. I bit. A half hour massage for $15.

Most importantly, according to the cruise-line sales pitch, this beach had been sanitized of sand fleas, which are apparently a plague upon tourists and locals alike and probably the universe. At any rate, something toxic was sprayed upon the white sands and within the confines of the private beach, we were not bitten.

And here is Larissa, ready to  knead the white pasty flesh of some old woman from god-knows-where.

Larissa claimed to be 15 but seemed older. Although we occupied an unsanitized area of Roatan, I didn't suffer any flea bites. Only sound bites of Larissa's life. I asked if she and others were able to buy food at the opulent cruise barbecue buffet, which was wafting tantalizing aromas from maybe 100 feet behind us.  She scoffed, "No. They'd rather throw food away than give it us, or even sell it to us. They treat us like dogs," she said. She pressed her thumbs especially hard into my shoulder muscles. Ummm.
She slathered me with baby oil. No pricey scented oils here. No massage table. No licensed massage therapist. Just Larissa, a teenager who told me she's still hoping that a former  cruise customer from Syracuse will make good on a promise to house her in the  U.S.A. and help her with college. Larissa went on at length about this woman, who Larissa believed, would deliver her from the poverty that plagues Honduras. The massage went past 45 minutes. Maybe I knew this woman? Larissa said she had the woman's phone number and had called her many times. But the woman hadn't called back.Why hadn't she called back?
Silence. What could I say about the temporary goodwill extended by tourists?

A local beer and the groomed entrance to the private cruise-ship beach just beyond.

Larissa said the food sure smelled good. "You want some?" I asked. "Would you?" she replied. I went through the buffet line and piled barbecued chicken, coleslaw, beans and rice, and wonderful tropical fruit onto a paper plate. I covered it with another plate and sped to the "line in the sand" where Larissa whisked it away, followed by two others. I saw them under some palms savoring the feast. She glanced over at me and nodded her thanks. Believe me Larissa, it was nothing.

Cruise Blues #1

Not exactly what you want to see when you step onto your cruise ship balcony to gaze at the tropical sea,  right? Not just that there's a crapload of tankers out there, but it's a metallic morning with a stiff breeze and just 64 degrees and you've signed up to go snorkeling. You're committed. The cruise line has a Draconian 48-hour cancellation policy. The $74 per person excursion charge has already been added to your swiftly escalating cruise account, and no matter what, you're going. This is kinda like eating a restaurant meal even though it sucks, or staying through a revolting movie just because you've paid for it.

And besides, it's a "free" cruise, which means I won it. No kidding. I took my elderly mother to a promotional event at a retirement center where the big prize was this cruise.  My number came up. It seemed really lucky to win, even though PK and I aren't exactly cruise material. But here we were a couple days into the cruise thinking that an opportunity to skim above a piece of the world's second largest coral reef—we were in the Caribbean off the coast of Belize on the Yucatan Peninsula—was not to be missed—or dismissed just because our teeth were chattering.

So we followed the herd onto a safe and comfortable craft (everything on cruise vacations is safe, if not  always comfortable) and headed with about 125 of our closest friends to the reef six miles distant. It wasn't getting any warmer.

This is a crew member enjoying the unseasonable March cold.

We arrived at the reef and were given our safety briefing; wear the mandatory flotation and don't go beyond the approximately basketball-court-sized area defined by crew members in plastic boats. And don't drink the rum punch until afterwards. Rum punch? At 9 a.m.?

So we floundered over the rail and with at least 100 other eager cruisers, splashed into the cool aquamarine.  Some wiser souls, including a couple of college girls in spaghetti straps, however, said NO WAY and got a head start on the  punch. More on that later.

I didn't mind the cold too much as I possess adequate natural insulation—fat. My ectomorph husband, however, quickly became, uh, chilled, a condition that would soon spread from his body to his mood. Especially his mood toward his wife. 

The pleasures of snorkeling with the masses in an intimate area is not to be downplayed. You will come into contact, fin or face, with at least 75 of them, one for each dollar paid for the experience. We were allowed an hour to snorkel, but most people couldn't hold out that long. PK and I soldiered on for maybe 30 minutes before I got sick of seeing way more people than fish, and  PK got sick of shivering. 

I took the above photo when we were back on the boat and all but the most persistent had called it quits. PK was wrapped in a damp towel and quaking like a hairless dog. Determined to cut my losses, I sought out the plastic barrel dispensing rum punch, the only free alcohol on the cruise where even a simple lite beer costs $6. It was maybe 10 a.m.  

College girls (?) on spring break cavort under an imagined sun.

A Scottish lad celebrates the not-so-fair morn.

And his fair lass goes along for the fair ride.

A lubricated couple prepares to smooch.

Rumless PK was not amused.

The cold was forgotten. The dance tunes were cranked up and whoo hoo! I believe the crew had  dumped an extra load of rum into the barrel out of sympathy for people who had paid too much for too little.  I think I can safely say that no one who signed up for the snorkeling on the world's second largest reef expected to be snockered before noon. 

Later PK and I  took a tender (a boat transporting cruise passengers into ports without proper depth to accommodate behemoth ships) into Belize City. Judgment clouded by the punch, I ordered a daiquiri on shore when PK got a beer. I couldn't drink the daiquiri, however, and handed it off to this receptive individual who was crafting trinkets near a bridge in Belize City. I believe his expression captures the spirit of the day.

I don't know this man's name, and I can't identify any of the people pictured above—except for that one unsmiling and annoyed person. If you were along for the ride this March 2010 day and happen to be pictured above and don't like it, please respond and I will remove your photo. Until then, thanks for a good time and bottom's up!

 

Blog drought

Johnny Jump-ups make February appearance.

Or maybe that should be blog paralysis.  I've been mulling several topics, all of them languishing in the draft stage. But the following sentiment, or something similar, depending on time of day, obstructs my progress: Who the hell cares?  I should just go watch the Olympics. (Not unlike my thoughts when I started this blog.)


At this moment, I should just go for a walk! or get ready for a vacation that starts in a couple days. But I've decided. I'm not going until "this" is finished, even though I'm not sure what "this" is. I learned during the years I wrote a weekly newspaper column that even though I often had NO IDEA what to say, a looming deadline—like the next morning—would spark an idea. So I'd perch before my primitive 1980's computer and start typing. Anything. Just like I'm doing now. Over time, I developed faith that thoughts that had been roiling in my brain would bubble up and spill onto the screen. They always did, of course, because I took those newspaper deadlines seriously.

Lots of those columns were absolute dogs. But recently I've been looking them over and thinking, Hmmmm. Not bad.  So my younger self is inspiring my 25-years-down-the-road self to keep trying, even though I recognize that deadlines=discipline, and the only deadlines I have for this blog are self-imposed—which could mean more drought.
But anyway. For you faithful (and much beloved) few who check periodically to see if I've been able to cough up another post, here are some topics rumbling in my drafts file:

• I'm jealous of my kids.
• Life is senseless. But I like it.
• Not a goddess. Uh uh. 
• Southern Oregon Soul Food (series)
• Characters in ordinary life. (series)
• Why get out of bed?
• Girdles are back. Aack!
• Changing places. (caring for 93-year-old mom)
• PK's the Man!

Cold frame lettuce abounds.

See anything interesting?

And then, of course, there's all those fascinating garden updates and irresistible "what I made for dinner last night" recipes. Speaking of garden updates, you must be dying to know what's up in February. Quite a lot, really, considering the fabulous spring-like Oregon weather we had for the past couple weeks. (Rainy today, however.) Here are a few edibles ready for harvest, or nearly so. I have trouble configuring blog photos, so bear with me. The captions for photos below are consolidated under the last photo.

 Cilantro not quite big enough to harvest. Magnificent Russian KALE and fall-planted broccoli that survived 8 degree nights in December. We aren't quite rolling in produce yet, but give us another month.

The belly as public domain

This is another one for my daughter-in-law and first-time-mother-to-be, who has recently complained about uninvited belly handling. It's rough, I know, but goes with the territory. I wrote the piece below when I was eight months pregnant with Chris. Don't worry, Heather. The bigger the belly, the worse it gets. 

Grants Pass Daily Courier
May 7, 1986

I'm getting to the big-bulge stage of pregnancy that's difficult to ignore. And, indeed, far from ignoring it, quite a few people seem to suffer from the delusion that a pregnant abdomen is in the public domain.

People I hardly know rub and pat my protruding belly as if it were some neutral object that happened to be between us, like a stone or a puppy. Some grab it with both hands as if it could be removed. They probe through the skin and fat, muscle and womb, right down to the baby. I silently command the little beggar to give the intruder a swift kick, but already the kid is disobedient and curls up sweet and docile.

There are the strokers who pet it and sort of coo. These are the ones who are speaking to the baby, not to me, and I feel old and in the way.

"Do you need a moment alone with it?" I want to ask, but don't.

The absent-minded feelers let their hands wander to my belly during casual conversation, as if walking their fingers around somebody else's tummy was the most natural thing in the world. Usually they're asking baby-related questions at the time time. "When are you gonna pop? or "Is it a boy or girl?" are the favorites.

Hearty patters give the old belly a slap and a ruffle, much as they might greet a large dog or a horse. "How's that baboo?" they'll ask.

I grin and bear it. For now, it's a part of my body that, being occupied by another person, is only partly mine anyway, and I view all the handling with some amusement. Depending on my mood, I even like it. When else will my midsection be lavished with so much attention?

Most of the time people are reluctant to touch one another in casual situations, but advanced pregnancy somehow invites intimacy. People seem to want to fuss over a baby even when the baby is still sheathed in its mother's body.

They want to fuss over the mother, too, opening doors, carrying groceries, picking up dropped objects, and performing other small services that suggest concern for one who's carrying about 25 extra pounds front and center. It isn't as debillitating as it looks, but most pregnant women appreciate the sympathy.

What they don't appreciate is people who feel compelled to relate Horrible Birth Experiences in gory detail. Even if you're able to stop them before they get to the worst part—the part they're dying to tell you—the damage has been done. Telling Horrible Birth Experiences to women about to deliver is akin to tell a mountain climber she can't reach the top, or a marathon runner that her lungs will burst at mile 25. It so rude and such a bad idea.

The absolute worst example of what NOT to say to a pregnant woman was said to me about a week before I was due with my first child. This moron's wife had just had a baby, and apparently the experience was not that uplifting, because he kept tossing out words like excruciating, terrible, and agonizing. His wife nodded gravely in agreement, doing nothing to soften the impression that giving birth is worse than the Chinese water torture.

He ended his tale with a remark to the effect that he'd sooner do himself in than endure such agony. Rejecting that option, I went ahead and had the baby. I found the event decidedly anti-climatic in the pain department and quite wonderful emotionally, despite Mr. Idiot's last-minute attempt at sabotage.

Fortunately for him, while blowing holes in my psychological preparation for birth, he didn't snake his oily hand over to prod my belly. If he had, I would have been sorely tempted to return the favor—with the bottom of my foot in that anatomical area where the sun don't shine.

Forgive mothers-to-be a couple idiosyncrasies

Our oldest son Quinn and wife are expecting their firstborn. They sent out the "bun in the oven"postcard in November 2009. The ecstatic news sent me rummaging through columns I'd written when Quinn, our eldest, was a child and I was expecting his brother, Chris. (Now, as I repost Times change but some things don't, and a wanted pregnancy is a time like no other. I wrote a lot about both boys during those incredible child-rearing years and will post a rerun column occasionally with notes about what I've learned since.

Grants Pass Daily Courier
April 2, 1986

Forgive mothers-to-be a couple idiosyncrasies.

The woman was well into the third trimester and struggled to write about it. Pregnancy is so, well, common, and maybe no one cares that she's getting close to being fruitful and multiplying. Pregnant women often secretly believe they're the center of the universe, forgetting that birth is as routine as spring, as ordinary as tulips. In philosophical moments they identify with the earth and how it is the medium for unfathomable growth. Seeds draw nourishment from it, and every spring the miracles repeat, renewing the landscape and replenishing hope.
The baby grows in her, but she does nothing. She has a vague sense that making a baby is the most important thing she can do, yet it requires no effort, no creativity. The egg that produced this baby was formed within her while she was still in her own mother's womb. At conception its physical characteristics were determined, written indelibly in genes.
Pregnant women think about such things and feel important but humble They can be dull company if they often share their thoughts, or if all they can discuss is the activities of the unborn.

The pregnant woman does not wish to bore anyone with incessant accounts of her past several months, but hopes she can be permitted some reflections. She periodically tries to ignore the whole process, turning her mind to matters of greater interest to he companions, but sooner or later, a keen sense of caring emerges. It is difficult to ignore the fact that a highly visible part of her anatomy is gradually being overtaken by someone who already has a functioning brain, and who can hear her voice and music and maybe even the songs of the spring birds in the orchard.
If for a moment she forgets her condition, the becoming person will energetically stretch or flex or roll. She suppresses the urge to call attention to these gymnastics, instead resting her hand on her abdomen and trying to visualize the small but growing person exercising its muscles, cell by cell building toward birth.
She is overwhelmed by curiosity about this person with whom she shares her body, her food, her moods, her thoughts. Sometimes she addresses it as "she," and sometimes as "he," not having a strong preference either way. She sometimes believes she may be the only expectant mother over 35 who doesn't know the sex and confirmation of her unborn child. She wants to know the baby is all right, but she knows she couldn't "do anything about it," as her doctor put it, even if it isn't. So she waits, sometimes impatiently, as the baby prepares
itself for life on the outside.

Quick cat update

Thanks to all who offered counsel regarding the Christmas cat moving in with my mom, age 93. Your advice, except for one (my wise sister, Monette who said no way!) was "sure, bring it on!" more or less.  Then it all fell apart because 1) my mom took another fall in her apartment, and adding even the slightest risk would have been irresponsible, and 2) that whore of a cat disappeared for almost a week. He materialized  on our doorstep last night, visibly more sleek and well fed than the last time he was here. i went right into slave-to-whore-cat mode and whipped up his favorite meal—baked chicken drumstick. Sometimes you just have to go with the status quo and call it good.

To cat or not to cat—petting the elderly

My mom, 93, likes cats. The "Christmas cat" I mentioned in an earlier post likes her. He is a mellow guy, prone to long naps. When mom's here, he nestles into her lap and she strokes him. They both purr. She asks about him when he's gone. "Is everybody accounted for?" she inquires, looking for him when entering our home. He spends hours in her lap. The question: should this cat be her apartment mate? The arguments pro:

• The elderly are often lonely and bored  and pets help give them purpose and companionship. I can hear her talking to him as I write. She coos, "Oh, so you do move every once in awhile. Nice kitty."
• Cats are silky and responsive and nice to touch and feel. The elderly get precious little of "touchy, feely."
  
• Her residence encourages small pet ownership.
• She's open to the idea, but worries that she "can't take it outside," not realizing many cats are house cats only. Our cats, the only felines she's known as far as I know, have been inside/outside beings with a come-and-go-cat door. The last one, Rowdy, our favorite for about 10 years, disappeared one summer night. After sad and fruitless searching, we figured he was eaten by an owl, a coyote, a raccoon, a fox, or a cougar. Country life is not always kind to pets.
• Provision for litter-box clean-up, which is beyond her, can be arranged.
• We could always take the cat back and continue to share him around the neighborhood.

The primary argument con:

• The cat is black, especially difficult to see in the night-lighted darkness by a visually impaired elderly person. Cats are a tripping hazard. My mom is increasingly prone to falling. Cats are notorious for slithering around ankles and being in the way.

Since I started this post, I've witnessed the usually docile cat in manic mode, outside, flinging himself from tree trunk to tree trunk in our small orchard. He rushes one trunk, grabs it with all fours, clambers up, drops, and flings himself onto the next tree. We've also noticed carnage—a mole's head, long front teeth intact—in a puddle of slime on the back porch. Is it fair to ask an inside/outside neighborhood cat to convert to inside only? Or would we be doing him a favor by providing him with reliable warmth, companionship, and food?

But really, it's not about him. It's about her. Does the safety issue outweigh the pleasure of having a pet? What do you think? Many readers have expressed frustration when attempting to leave comments. (Why is that, Blogger?) Try my email: mkorbulic@gmail.com. Facebook friends, you can weigh in via our fave social network.  I appreciate your thoughts.

Things that make me glad in bleak mid-winter

Geraniums glowing in the solarium. 

A box of winter greens. 

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Wild turkeys alongside the road during a December bike ride.

  

Grandma LaVone enjoying grandson Chris'  adventures via the Kokotat blog.

PK's dried serrano peppers awaiting marriage with garlic and vinegar for superb chili garlic sauce.

 My first senior ski pass: Mt. Shasta, $15 a day!

Resolutions I have kept- and one for 2010

I thought I'd given up on the New Year's resolution  exercise, but I see not.

Why? Because despite my resistance, the topic compels me. I can't help it. In the recent past, I have made resolutions that I have actually kept, and some corrections in my trajectory transpired.

Here are some resolutions that worked. 

1. I bought nothing new for one year. (Not that difficult for somebody already attuned to Goodwill shopping, but it required some discipline. I still adhere in general, but respect and recognize the preference for unsoiled undergarments.)
2. I ate something from the garden every day. (So easy when surrounded by garden 9 months of the year. Pepper flakes, dried tomatoes, and lots of frozen corn in lean winter made this a snap.)
3. I kept a daily food journal. (Incredibly boring, but I will revisit for an occasional inspired recipes and periodic insights.)

No big deal on these. But they beat losing (and regaining) the same 10 pounds year after year. And they required daily thought and discipline.

Despite advancing age, I'm still figuring things out and recognize the role that resolutions fill in setting direction. Ta da! Here's THE 2010 resolution:

Figure out the difference between what I have to do and what I want to do and make necessary adjustments.  This has to do with juggling familial obligations and pleasures, volunteerism, paid work, and self-centered stuff—such as writing this blog and going for walks and bike rides and doing yoga and taking up art and on and on. Stay tuned.